


A Night to Drink to Love

by Otherworlder



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 12:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14976944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Otherworlder/pseuds/Otherworlder
Summary: What is love, and how would one know? Eomer has professed his love many times; Aragorn never seemed to understand. Or also known as, in which two men talked about their feelings maturely. [Warning: one-sided slash]





	A Night to Drink to Love

It was Faramir and Eowyn’s wedding, and Eomer was uncharacteristically into his cup.

“It is as if you are challenging me to drink as much,” Faramir accused with good humor, raising his goblet to Eomer, “Now, brother, you can simply offer another toast; I shall not refuse it.”

“Ha!” Eomer clinked glasses with Faramir, “You better stay sober tonight and make my sister happier still. Now get out of my sight; your felicity is such an eyesore to us lonely souls.”

Seeing Eomer down his goblet of fine elven vintage in one gulp as if it were beer, Faramir laughed and said, “If you would only stop drinking alone like a miserable wretch and go talk to my lovely cousin, your lonely soul might be saved yet.”

Eomer threw him a mock disgusted glare, “Fie! Get thee gone, gloating fiend. Thou art a poor matchmaker.”

Another round of drinks later, Eowyn came by and pinched his arm. She whispered playfully with just a hint of concern and warning, “You can drink yourself to death and I certainly will not be there to pick up the pieces, brother. I will be gone with my husband soon.”

Eomer choked a little. Celebrating his little sister’s nuptial already made him exceptionally emotional, the wine added more fuel to the fire. He grasped Eowyn’s hand and held it in a death grip for a minute, before saying brusquely, “Go; go be happy, sister.”

Once the newlyweds departed the feasting crowd quickly thinned. Eomer remained in his corner and kept drinking. He was probably drunk, at least a little, but still clearheaded enough to scan the hall for the one on his mind. Just then the one he sought emerged from the blurriness of the wide hall and walked towards him. Aragorn settled down in a seat next to Eomer, all long-limbed grace, utterly unperturbed by the wildness of a Rohirric celebration. He poured a cup of steaming liquid from the pitcher he carried and handed the cup to Eomer.

“Come, drink some tea,” He said as if coaxing a child, “Rivendell’s vintage can be very deceiving.”

Eomer would have swallowed the entire cup in a few burning gulps had Aragorn not snatched the cup from him.

“Letting yourself come to harm is a poor way to express melancholy, my friend,” Aragorn chided quietly, “Do not be troubled by any fear or sorrow. She will be very happy, Eomer, I promise you.”

“Aye, I know, Faramir will make her happy. I am melancholic, but in a way I am also jealous of her.”

“Indeed?” Aragorn laughed, “Worry not! You are young, and comely to the eye, and the proud king of a noble people; ladies will flock to you like butterflies to a beautiful rose, and you might rue what you wish for one day. Love will find you yet, my friend, and should you want a little assistance, just say so, and I will then—only then—play the matchmaker’s tune.”

Aragorn rarely laughed; even after the final victory he remained reserved and cool, if not actually grim. He was like a sword, Eomer reflected, just like the legendary Anduril, beautiful but cold when sheathed, inspiring and also terrifying when unleashed. But Aragorn did laugh and smile for close friends. When he smiled, the Flame of the West would become the Light of Spring, not just beautiful, but shining with all the hope and glory of life itself. A smile that reached the eyes was a thing of intimacy Aragorn only offered to the select few, a thing that made him close, warm, and desirable. What a pity to be one of the select few! Feeling ever gloomier, Eomer reached for his wine.

Aragorn put a hand on Eomer’s groping hand, proffering tea once more, “At least drink more tea first.”

Eomer took the tea cup from Aragorn’s hand, and his attention was drawn to the hand instead. Aragorn had long and slender fingers, his sinew and veins clearly visible under pale skin marked by fine lines of scars. Such a steel-hardened hand felt so gentle and soft when it covered his own.

“You are very beautiful,” Eomer blurted out.

Aragorn laughed again, saying, “I suppose I should thank you, however unreliable a drunken man’s compliment.”

“I have more, many a more drunken man’s compliments,” After a moment of pondering, Eomer added, “There are things I want to tell you…I have been wanting to tell you. Now I am finally drunk enough to say my piece. If I can just have a minute of your time. Or two minutes. Or this entire night. I am just asking, you don’t have to agree.”

“Of course. Come sit closer to the fire; it will keep the tea warm,” Aragorn said, “Say what you will. I always have a minute for you. Or two. Or this entire night.”

Aragorn rearranged his chair and lounged comfortably by the hearth, his long legs stretched out before him. Firelight danced on his pale face, his raven hair shot with silver, and his starlight eyes, like noon light caressing the rich coat of a mearas resting in a sun-drenched valley. Eomer did not want tea; he would like more wine instead. For a long time he remained silent, for he did not know how to begin. Aragorn did not hurry him, only sat there drinking his tea, as if perfectly happy to be away from his lovely wife to spend an entire night here with the young king of Rohan, by the hearth on a hard chair.

Eomer had to reach for wine again, mumbling, “I need one more glass, one more.”

Aragorn shook his head, but did not stop him this time.

After taking another sip of wine, Eomer began, “Eowyn told me many stories about you, about her feelings for you and such. She said you saw through her since the very beginning, so you did your best to keep distance; short of being rude, you did everything to dissuade her. She was rather embarrassed that she had been so infatuated that all your effort was soundly wasted.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in surprise, and he mused, “You two must be really close indeed for her to tell you such a thing.”

“Once she was happily in love with Faramir, she naturally wanted to laugh at her old self with someone. To whom would she speak but me?”

Aragorn nodded and said with heartfelt sincerity, “I cannot tell you how happy I am now that she has found true love and joy, Eomer.”

“You were so good to her, she told me. Not that I need her to tell me such; I know it well. She said nary a word yet you read her heart better than she knew it herself. You were so worried about her. Yet,” Eomer sighed, “Have I not told you many times how much I love you? You never feared for my heart.”

“And I love you too, brother. In truth I love Eowyn just as well, though not in a way a young and adventurous lady like her would want, once upon a time. She desired in me a soul that complements hers, a union and a family. I could not give her that, and as a result I could not even voice the love of a brother and a father. It is all changed now of course, I can profess my love to her, and she would not mistake my meaning and expect what I cannot give,” Aragorn chuckled quietly, his voice warm with a happy and oblivious confidence that cut like a knife, “But as for your heart, what do I have to fear? Whatever love you offer, I am ready to reciprocate in full, for you are an honorable leader of a valiant people, brave as a young stallion, strong like tempered steel, and a more faithful comrade-in-arms there is none.”

“Whatever love I offer, you shall reciprocate? Truly?” Eomer suddenly burst out laughing, “Have you ever thought about what would even be offered? Only what may be reciprocated. Did Eowyn ever offer you anything untoward? She only asked to ride with you, down the Paths of the Dead no less; a chance to die by your side as a fellow soldier, that was all she dared to ask, all she dared to hope for.”

Now Aragorn seemed genuinely surprised. “What has brought this on? Surely you are not just upset over Eowyn’s momentary unrequited affection, especially now, on her wedding night. Have I offended you somehow?”

“I am not offended,” Eomer paused to think a while longer, then he changed his mind and said, “Alright, perhaps I am offended; offended that you give me everything except for what I need, not even consolation for my actual woes. I am offended that you do not mistake others’ love, only mine. Why is it that you knew Eowyn’s heart, all of her girlish dreams and unspoken fantasies, yet you still do not know mine?”

Aragorn gazed at the young golden king for a long time, face somber, yet grey eyes glowing with genuine love and concern. At last he said, “I was afraid that the truth might offend, but you are right, an offensive truth might offend less than pretense. Yes, Eomer, I did see the hero-worship in your eyes; I am a seasoned captain, and know that look well. Still I did not fear for you. Such faith would be a useful thing in times of war, and easy to cure afterward. In time, with close companionship, you will naturally see that I am but a man, a friend and a brother, not a statue set on high.”

“Hero-worship? Perhaps. But no, not at all. It is not that!” Eomer shook his head as if wanting to clear it, but he reached for more wine instead, “Tell me, Elessar, what is love? How did you know when you first loved the Evenstar?”

Aragorn blinked, now hopelessly confused. “What do you mean?”

“Because I wondered, just a little, why you love her,” Eomer admitted, “Queen Undomiel is beautiful, the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, except maybe for her grandmother with the face of a sixteen-year old girl. Ha, I said to Gimli that Queen Undomiel is the fairer just to have a happy quarrel with our good dwarf. In truth the two noble ladies are equally fair; once beauty reaches such an unimaginable level, there is neither more nor less. Yet I love them not. Like the first dawn the world has ever seen, like twilight over an endless forest, or snow falling on mountain peaks above a sea of clouds, like every spectacular strand of nature, they inspire a little awe in me, but much, much more terror. If anything, the Lady of the Golden Wood looks very much like the enchantment-spinning witch from our old tales—don’t tell Gimli I said that!”

Aragorn smiled, “Truth be told, Lady Galadriel inspired quite a bit of terror in me as well; even the tiniest shard of the millennia in her eyes would make any mortal heart quail. Beauty does not always inspire love, and the heart works in mysterious ways. It is not Lady Galadriel’s shinning beauty alone that moves Gimli to such deep love either!”

“Aye, Gimli’s love…” Eomer seemed to be puzzling this out for himself, but at last he shook his head, “I cannot make head or tail of our good dwarf’s feelings, but I have never been good at deciphering hearts. It is strange though, that when I first saw your queen and her glorious grandmother I was not even the least moved. My heart did not beat any faster, my breath did not catch, and no thought of desire, however brief, ever touched me. Never mind that beauty does not always inspire love, it does not even always inspire lust.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows shot up with surprise, but he only replied playfully, “Good. If our chatting should take a turn towards barrack talk, I would be grateful to leave my wife and her grandmother out of it. Especially the grandmother.”

Eomer snorted, “Is the High King of Gondor and Arnor too refined for barrack talk?”

Aragorn squeezed Eomer’s shoulder with good humor and replied, “Not always, and not with you. I approached a drunken single man at his sister’s wedding and offered him my one minute or two, did I not?”

Now Eomer did feel his heart hammer with a new speed and his breath coming short and flustered. He knew Aragorn meant nothing by it so he was ever more offended. How could such a wise, astute man be so blind now? Or was his love so tragically wrong that even a wise man like Aragorn could not read it? He drew a deep breath to calm his heart, and then he said, “I imagine it must have been rather boring to engage you in barrack talk, back when you were in the barracks. You did, after all, spent eighty-seven years without a woman. Or man.”

Aragorn choked on his tea and nearly coughed his lungs out.

Eomer only continued with a blank expression, “You fell in love at a young age with the most beautiful thing in the world and loved her from afar for sixty-seven years, as a pilgrim loving Eru, longer than most people’s entire lives. To be honest, I would not want to share barrack talk with you, probably abysmally boring. Barrack talk should be for stories of wild adventure and conquest, for conjuring to get on by.”

“Well said, my oh-so-experienced friend!” Aragorn teased.

“Are you never moved by desires of the flesh?” Eomer ignored him, almost as if wondering to himself.

“I am a married man now, you impertinent colt. Has your sister’s wedding brought on that much loneliness and melancholy?” Aragorn hesitated, then he shook his head and said in a more serious voice, “The Dunedain follow the elvish way of old: a consenting union is a marriage, not to be flung off as something trivial. In my travels, on those rare occasions this came up in conversation, many expressed disbelief and even disapprobation of our practice. I know the Rohirrim do not treat physical unions as such weighty things. I think every culture has some piece of the truth. You certainly should not torment yourself over desires and feelings. Do you want to tell me the tale? It might render the burden lighter.”

Eomer blinked. Aragorn sounded like he was closer to the truth, but Eomer knew he was still nowhere near.

So Eomer said, “You are right, we eorlingas laugh at Gondorian propriety, and I would hardly be so troubled if it were only some carnal desires. Why not enjoy it, if the object of my desires should be willing and happy! Or else quench it or forget it, there are ways. It is only when you look on a person, and your eyes see great beauty, your mind respects and follows, your heart beats with hope and tenderness and joy, and still your loin grows hot, and then do troubles begin. This is love, the truest and most singular of loves, is it not? How can I quench it or forget it, or tell myself it is but a boyish infatuation, a soldierly hero-worship, when every part of my soul and body feels it beating against the skin? Even Eowyn did not feel such a love, I wager.”

Aragorn fell silent. Finally he was beginning to see.

But Eomer grew bolder, his eyes bright and glittering, and he said, “Be at ease, Elessar King, though unquenchable and unforgettable, I offer you only what you can reciprocate. I would kiss your ring—” And he took Aragorn’s hand and kissed the signet ring upon the middle finger, “I would kiss your hand—” And brushed another feather light kiss on Aragorn’s long, pale fingers.

“Yet I will not kiss thy lips, despite every desire, so take from me everything thou canst, and leave the rest. And the rest shall not scatter in the wind for all to see, for a better guard shall I be in a soberer future, this I pledge thee.”

It was thrilling to finally give voice to all of his love, leaving nothing unsaid, like the final death charge into enemy lines. He did not know what to expect from Aragorn, though if there be any reaction, he much preferred indignation over pity. However generous a gift pity would be, his heart was too weary for it. Yet Aragorn sat there unmoving for a long time, the light of the dying fire in the hearth flickering on his face.

At last he sighed and said in a low voice, “I wish I could tell you that you love but a shadow and a thought, or that you love with the fervor of youth, and it shall all pass with the growing years, yet I do not know whether it is so. You spoke with too much knowing and candor, and the heart is too strange a thing for anyone to know how it shall move.”

“You need not tell me anything.”

Aragorn continued, “I am glad that you spoke the true depth of your love. These words will do you good. You should not keep everything tightly shut within, for it might fester into something that harms you. I am greatly moved that you trust me enough with this truth, even if at a drunken hour. I hope in a soberer future you still have someone to share your burden. Yet what can I still give you, Eomer?”

“Nothing. Only do not let my drunken words change what is between us; let me fight by your side, now and forever more.”

“You will always be my brother, for the rest of your life, and the rest of mine,” Aragorn spoke ever so softly, “Yet I think distance and time might do you some good.”

Eomer opened his mouth but not word came. Aragorn was painfully right, as he had always been. The young golden king laughed bitterly. He reached for the wine bottle and poured himself a full glass, gulping it down like a man in a desert. How sweet the wine tasted! Even if he should greatly rue it on the morrow. Aragorn watched him, silent and pale, but did not stop him. When Eomer reached for the wine bottle a second time Aragorn lifted the pitcher he set beside the hearth and poured out a cup of tea, placing it on the ground beside Eomer.

“The fire kept it warm,” The King of West said gently, “I will always keep the tea warm for you. It may or may not be what you want or need, you will have to judge—and to choose—for yourself.”

Eomer stared at the tea cup as if it were something that weighed a mountain, but he did not reach for it; he only put the wine bottle down slowly and blinked.  
Aragorn took his young friend’s hand and kissed it gently.

“You know I will always love you. Good night, Eomer, and farewell.”

With that he stood from the chair and disappeared into the night.


End file.
